


and the sky won't snow

by l_cloudy



Series: river’s daughter and dragon’s son [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: AGOT, Almost Completely Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:12:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“It was their twelfth day crossing the Neck, when Arya Stark came at Prince Joffrey with a knife.”</em><br/>Wherein Sansa and the boys are of the North, and Arya has the Tully look. A Stark family ficlet series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As you can probably guess from the series, this is set in the same ‘verse as _out where the dreams all hide_ , because I figured that Jon Snow shouldn’t be the only one looking like a different parent. Both stories will likely be updated, but every chapter will be a self-contained ficlet.

It was their twelfth day crossing the Neck, when Arya Stark came at Prince Joffrey with a knife.

She would have rather have a sword, but hadn’t been able to get her hands on one before they had to leave Winterfell. Arya had begged Mikken the swordsmith to give her one, a small one even; but the man had only laughed her away. _You won’t need no swords in the South_ , Lady Arya, Mikken had told her. _They’ll make you into a proper lady, and you’ll only get bored and throw it away._

Arya had hated him for it.

They all kept saying that, Mother and Father and Septa Mordane even. _King’s Landing will be good for you, Arya, they repeated_ , and she scoffed. Arya wanted to go to King’s Landing, and see the Red Keep and Baelor’s Sept and the sun rising from the Narrow Sea at dawn; but she liked herself just fine.

Mother, of course, didn’t agree. Arya looked just like Lady Catelyn, every one said so, and expected Arya to act like her as well, to Arya’s great dismay. All of her brothers looked like Father instead, and _they_ only laughed whenever they saw Arya hiding up somewhere, trying to escape Septa Mordane’s watchful eyes. Arya Spitfire, they called her, for her red hair; and she pretended to be angry even though she liked the name quite a lot.

And yet her brothers were back home in Winterfell and she was going South with only Sansa for company, and she missed them terribly already. There was Father, of course, but Father did not count, because he was the new Hand of the King and always off riding with King Robert somewhere. Still there was some good in Father stay away all day, though, because it meant that the king wasn’t around to stare at Sansa, which was staring to get on Arya’s nerves. Sansa looked a lot like Aunt Lyanna, she knew, who had been to marry the king before she had died, but still, Arya didn’t like it one bit. The king was too old for Sansa, and _fat_.

Still, the king had gone looking for aurochs somewhere today, and Sansa riding with the queen.

“You should come, too,” her sister had told her that morning, but Arya had only made a face.

“I like riding better,” she had said, and Sansa had shuddered. Sansa did not like riding, no one bit, not since Father had broken one arm and a leg on a bad fall, when they had both been very small. Arya couldn’t even remember it, but her sister did; and she had always been scared, afterwards.

Arya went riding off on her own after that, with half a mind of going looking for the fallen rubies in the water. Rhaegar’s rubies. They must be worth a lot, she thought. _Surely enough to buy a sword_.

She almost went looking for Mycah to see if he wanted to help her, but he had refused to talk to her since his master had seen them together. _What are you doing, boy, wastin time on the Hand’s daughter like that?_ the man had said. _That kind of meat ain’t for the likes of you_. Arya had tried to tell him that Mycah was her friend, but the man wouldn’t listen.

“And now I’m alone,” she told Nymerya, annoyed, and the wolf raised her head to look at her. “I didn’t mean like that,” Arya promised. “I like you just fine, don’t worry.”

She resigned herself to remain between the trees instead, because the sun burned too hot on her neck to go looking for lizard lions. Nymeria had wandered off somewhere, and she was welcomed to the heat. Arya would pick every new flower she saw, she decided, and bring them to Father; and she had found four new one by the time she saw Prince Joffrey arrive.

He had a strange reaction at at seeing her, halfway between confusion and his stupid arrogant face, and Arya thought he looked like one of the seals she had seen once in White Harbor. She laughed, and he scowled.

“Are you mocking your Prince?” he asked; and Arya remembered that he was Sansa’s betrothed, as stupid as his curly hair was, and only shrugged instead of answering.

“What are you doing here?” she said instead; and, at that, he smiled.

_He’s no charming at all, no matter what Sansa says_.

“Me and your sister went riding,” Joffrey said. “I think I lost her.”

Arya frowned. “But Sansa doesn’t like riding.”

The prince laughed at that. “So I saw,” he said, sliding off his own horse. “I think it was funny.”

“You should have stayed with her,” Arya accused him. “Sansa doesn’t like riding but she did it for you anyway, because…” _because she’s stupid_ , Arya thought, but did not say that to Joffrey. “Because she’s your betrothed, and wanted to make you happy,” she concluded. It was the absolute truth, she knew; but then again, Sansa always liked stupid things.

“As well as she should,” Joffrey agreed. “I’m her Prince.”

_You are a little shit_ , she wanted to tell him, like she had heard Theon Greyjoy say to Robb.

“What about you, Arya?” Joffrey asked, and she frowned right at him.

“What about me?” Arya asked, glaring at the prince. He had green eyes just like Queen Cersei, she saw, surprised. _When did he get so close?_

“Do _you_ want to make me happy?” he asked, and Arya snorted.

“I don’t even want to see you,” she said. “Go away.”

But Joffrey didn’t move. If anything, he came closer. “I’m going to be King one day, you know,” he offered, as if she didn’t know.

He looked disappointed at her lack of an answer, and continued. “I would rather to marry you than Sansa,” Joffrey said. “You’re prettier.”

And you’re stupid. She took a step back. “Well I _don’t_ ,” Arya told him. “Go back to Sansa.”

“I don’t care for Sansa,” he said, smiling like he had before. “The Others’ take Sansa.”

She tightened her hands into fists, and he went on talking. “Or my father. You know, he keeps on saying how much she looks like Lady Lyanna, perhaps he should take her. A king can have all the women he wants, even the Hand’s daughter.”

“When I’m king,” Joffrey informed her. “I’m going to have you brought to my bed.”

Arya punched him in the face.

“How do you dare…” he began, but she didn’t let him talk, running for her horse as she took her knife from her belt.

_Where’s Nymeria?_

“Stay away,” Arya said. “Stay away or I’ll stab you.”

Joffrey laughed, but he was red with anger. “You speak treason,” he said, his voice oddly cold, as Mother’s did when she did something very, very bad.

“You go away,” Arya told him, trying to sound brave. “Or I’ll tell Father. And the king.”

“I’ll remember this.” Joffrey made for his horse, and Arya breathed in relief, trying not to be too obvious.

“I’ll remember this,” he repeated as he rode away; and once he was gone Arya Stark let herself fall down to the ground, breathing in the smell of flowers and grass and summer, and she was trembling.

_I'll remember this, too._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Runs parallel to the Arya chapter.

Sansa Stark looked at the mirror, and saw an ugly girl.

Her face was too long, and pale, and clashed horribly with the dark of her hair. She would never be able to wear the shining white that was the new fashion of the court, not the way Queen Cersei did; Queen Cersei with her full lips and wide chest. Sansa’s chest was flat, her hips too narrow, her eyes a dull shade of grey instead of her mother’s rich blue; and she hated it.

 _A true beauty of the North_ , Harrion Karstark had called her once; and she could almost have believed him, had not she known that it was her father’s favor the Karstarks courted. Father himself never paid her a compliment, and as for her mother… _Arya and I_ , Sansa decided, _must be such a disappointment_. Arya could have been _such a pretty girl_ , Lady Catelyn always told her youngest, if only she took care of look her best; and to Sansa she always said how pretty her dress were, or her hair, her songs at the harp – but never Sansa herself.

_Will the ladies of the court laugh, when they see me?_

She was to marry Joffrey, who was as comely as his Lannister mother, and quite clearly could not keep his gaze on his betrothed without letting it wander to her younger sister. _Of course it must be Arya_. It was always Arya, no matter that she could not play or dance or maintain a proper conversation. _What need does she have to learn the harp if she’s pretty?_

Sansa herself played most beautifully; everyone said so. Even Mother, as cautious as she was in dispensing compliments. Even Father, who was usually oblivious to courtly manners; and, after she had played once at King Robert’s welcoming feast, Uncle Benjen had sought her out to tell her how much he had enjoyed the song.

“My sister had a lovely singing voice, too,” he uncle had said; and Sansa could not quite decide whether he looked happy or sad at the memory. “But Lyanna never had the patience to learn to play, no when she could be shooting arrows in the yard.”

“You look exactly like her, Sansa, you know?” he had said, to Sansa’s great surprise – and even delight, because Aunt Lyanna had been beautiful; the whole kingdom knew. In the South, bards wrote songs about her, as they had never done for any other girl of the North before; and Sansa had felt her eyes go wide.

“Do I, really?” she had asked then, feeling flattered; but then Father had called her over and asked her to play once more, for the King and the Queen, and Sansa couldn’t remember feeling more elated in her life. So Sansa had played _Alysanne_ , because sad songs are always the most beautiful, King Robert looking at her from under the weight of his heavy eyelids and the Summer wine he’d drank; and, by the end of the night, Sansa Stark never wanted to hear how much she looked like Aunt Lyanna. _Never again_.

She had excused herself after that, feeling her cheeks flush and her eyes prickle, not even daring to look at the Queen when she could still hear Robert’s inquisitive, _Lya?_ , ringing in her ears. _He shamed her in front of complete strangers_ , Sansa thought, _she must hate me_ _now_. Would Queen Cersei still let her marry her son?

“I apologize for that, Lady Sansa. King Robert is never pleasant when he drinks.”

The voice had made her bolt in surprise, and she had turned to see the queen’s brother staring at her. Not Ser Jaime, she noticed, disappointed; but Lord Tyrion the Imp instead, an oddly sympathetic look in his eyes.

_He pities me, too._

“I am sorry,” Sansa told him, hoping he would report her words to the queen. “For coming between His Grace and his wife, I did not know he would –”

“Child,” Lord Tyrion interrupted her; sounding so much like Father did when he gave Bran or Robb a lesson. “Robert dishonors his lady wife every day, it is not you who should be sorry.”

“Your Lord Father should make him apology to you,” he added; and Sansa almost gasped. _Father would never_.

“But he’s the _king_!”

“And a prick,” the Imp said, then paused. “Do not worry over it. It will not happen again.”

 _As if it were easy_ , she had thought at the time; but the days had gone by and King Robert had not even spoken to her again. Neither had the Queen, although they _were_ still going to King’s Landing – later than expected, of course, after what’d happened to poor Bran – and Mother had promised her that she and the prince would be betrothed in one year, and married the next.

 _Two years_ , Sansa had told herself; and the thought had become her constant companion since then. Two years, two years.

Two years to make him love me, she had decided; and she would, no matter how much Joffrey might glance to Arya from time to time. Sansa would conquer him with her graces and manners, and she was sure Joffrey would come to prefer her company by the time they married. _Arya will bore him soon enough; she cannot even dance_.

And today was the first step, their invitation to Queen Cersei’s wheelhouse; and Sansa knew her sister well enough to know that she would not come. _Perhaps I can make the Queen like me, and Princess Mycella_.

She looked at the mirror one last time, critically. Her prettiest dress was a purplish shade of red, close enough to the Queen’s Lannister crimson but not quite; and, more important, did not make her look so washed out. Her hair was still a stark contrast with her skin, but it was still her best trait, long and black and brushed until it shone. If she wore it down to frame her face, she could look almost pretty.

Sansa Stark made her way out the room with her head high, determined. Today she would show the queen that she could be worthy of the Crown Prince, she knew it. And after that, perhaps Joffrey might even join them… _I will make him like me_ , Sansa repeated to herself. _And once we marry, I will give him a son, and he will love me_. I can do it.

And then, everything would be just perfect.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arya and Ned have a talk

King’s Landing was hot, smelly and dull, and Arya had hated it at first sight.

“It cannot be more boring than Winterfell, can it?” Sansa observed, on the first morning she heard Arya complain. “And _you_ were the one who wanted to leave.”

And that was unfair; Sansa had been the only one to know of Arya’s enthusiasm for the journey, _before_. Before the Trident, before Joffrey, before the day she’d realized that all the wonders of the South might be enough to make up for leaving home, but would never be worth looking at the prince’s smug face every day.

Father had thought it a good sign, that the Crown Prince seemed to make such efforts to get to know his future wife and her sister, and Arya hadn’t dared telling him what had happened. _Maybe he’ll be angry_ , she thought, like Sansa would be if Arya ever spoke a word against Joffrey in her presence.

“I _wanted_ to leave,” Arya said. “And now I want to go home. There’s nothing to do here.” Nothing, except sewing and dressing up and playing lady to Princess Myrcella. The princess was sweet, nothing like her elder brother, but as boring as everyone at court seemed to be. Even more boring than baby Rickon, who used to follow her and Bran around everywhere to play jokes on Robb whenever he was distracted.

She felt tears prickling her eyes at that, thinking of Bran and what had happened to him; and left the room without paying attention to Septa Mordane’s shrieks. _If it wasn’t for me she’d be bored, too_.

It was in her bedroom that Father found her, a few hours later.

“Arya?”

She heard him knock on the door, lightly, and groaned into her pillow. “Go away!” Arya said, her voice muffled enough that perhaps Father wouldn’t hear. Maybe he would think she was sleeping.

“Arya, open the door.”

No such luck.

Her father looked sad, and the tired glace he threw Arya was enough to make her feel more guilty than Septa Mordane could ever hope to manage. “You made a spectacle of yourself this morning, child.”

But surely he couldn’t be angry about that. Arya made a spectacle of herself _all the time_ , or so she’d been reliably informed. “Who told you that?”

Father raised an eyebrow, but didn’t scold her for being rude like Mother would have. “Come again?”

“You weren’t there,” Arya said, not much caring if she sounded as pouty as Sansa and as childish as Rickon. “You never are, and I’m just alone all day with Sansa and….”

She was sobbing, Arya realized, crying like she hadn’t since she’d been a little girl. Only little girl cried, Robb had told her once, and she wanted to be a warrior, and strong and brave – only she was just a little girl after all, wasn’t she? A little girl, and not even a proper lady at that. “Sansa _hates_ me,” she told Father, and it wasn’t news, not really, but it was _worse_ lately, and all because of the stupid prince. “And it’s all Prince Joffrey’s fault, and she can’t see how much of a prick he is.”

Father didn’t look nearly as angry as he should have been at her remark. “You shouldn’t talk about the prince that way, Arya,” it was all he said. “Not where others can hear.”

“You are not _others_ ,” Arya blurted out. “And the prince is cruel, and he doesn’t even _care_ for Sansa and she can’t see it. He told me so.”

That seemed to work, or close enough. Father frowned at her words. “Do you remember what he said?” he asked, “the exact words?”

He sounded like he might believe her, and Arya relaxed. Maybe she’d been wrong to wait so long, maybe she should have told him the same day it’d happened… “At the Trident, he came looking for me and I asked why he wasn’t with Sansa, and he said…” Arya paused, biting her lip. Father wouldn’t call her a liar, but maybe he would tell Sansa what she said, and Sansa would get angry for this. “He said that he doesn’t care for Sansa, and that he likes me better because I’m pretty.” It all came out in a long whisper, and maybe Sansa would never need to know, and it wasn’t _Arya’s_ fault that the stupid prince _liked_ her. She’d rather be ugly and be left alone.

“And then he said that a Prince can have all the women he wants brought to his bed,” she continued, rushed, and heard Father take in a sharp breath next to her.

Arya _knew_ what Joffrey had meant – the things married ladies did with their lords, and she knew that it was a bad thing to speak of a lady that way. She knew it was a bad thing, but she hadn’t been prepared for just how _angry_ Father looked right now.

“Are you _sure_ about this, Arya?” he asked, and she’d never heard him sound so serious before. “It’s important, child. Is that what he said?”

She nodded. “I told him I would tell you, so he left.”

“Arya…” He’d moved in closer, putting his arms around her shoulder like he used to do when she had nightmares as a young girl. “I am sorry the prince said those things to you, child.”

“Are you going to tell the king?” she asked, and Father stiffened.

“I don’t know,” he said, eventually; and Arya knew that meant _no_ , and that Joffrey would still go on doing whatever he did because he was a stupid prince, and it wasn’t _fair_ at all.

“Will you…” Arya began, then stopped, not even knowing what she’d wanted to ask. _Will you tell Sansa that it wasn’t my fault?_ Her sister would never dare call Father a _liar_ , after all. _Will you tell Joffrey to stop?_ But that wasn’t how things were done.

“Will you still let Sansa marry him?” she asked instead. “Joffrey?”

And this time the silence was longer, and Father never answered.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm [on tumblr](http://www.kyhlos.tumblr.com/) a lot lately. It's a thing.


End file.
